Battle for the Bow and Arrow

The Shiv Sena dispute before the Supreme Court is no longer just about MLAs and symbols, but about what legally defines a political party. AI generated image The fight over the Shiv Sena has moved well beyond Maharashtra’s familiar political theatre. In the Supreme Court, the dispute has narrowed to a question that is less dramatic on the surface but potentially far more consequential: what exactly makes a political party a political party? Is it the elected strength of its legislators? The...

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The Shiv Sena dispute before the Supreme Court is no longer just about MLAs and symbols, but about what legally defines a political party. AI generated image The fight over the Shiv Sena has moved well beyond Maharashtra’s familiar political theatre. In the Supreme Court, the dispute has narrowed to a question that is less dramatic on the surface but potentially far more consequential: what exactly makes a political party a political party? Is it the elected strength of its legislators? The organisation outside the legislature? The party constitution on record with the Election Commission? Or some combination of all three? That question lies at the centre of the legal battle between the factions led by Eknath Shinde and Uddhav Thackeray. Two Claims Senior advocate Neeraj Kishan Kaul, appearing for the Shinde faction, has defended the Election Commission’s February 17, 2023 decision, recognising the Shinde camp as the Shiv Sena and allotting it the bow-and-arrow symbol. The Thackeray faction has challenged that decision. The bench is also dealing with challenges connected to the Maharashtra Assembly Speaker’s January 2024 decision on disqualification petitions. The Thackeray faction, represented by senior advocates Kapil Sibal and Devadatt Kamat, has drawn a sharp distinction between the political party and its legislature wing. Its argument is a group of MLAs breaking away from the legislative wing does not automatically mean that the political party itself has changed hands. The party’s organisation, structure and identity cannot simply be equated with the numbers sitting in the Assembly. The Shinde faction says the dispute was never merely about legislators walking out. According to its argument, the rupture extended into the wider political organisation, with competing meetings, resolutions and claims of support from party workers and functionaries. The legislative split was, in its telling, only one visible part of a larger party-wide conflict. That distinction determines whether the Election Commission could legitimately intervene under Paragraph 15 of the Election Symbols Order and decide which rival faction represented the recognised political party. Kaul has argued that the Commission was entitled to consider the wider organisational dispute rather than treating the matter as a purely legislative rebellion. Constitutional Tussle The courtroom fight has also brought an old Shiv Sena document back into the spotlight. Kaul has relied heavily on the constitution placed on record with the Election Commission after the poll panel raised objections to the party’s earlier structure. The material before the court says the Commission had, in the late 1990s, pushed for a more democratic organisational structure, including changes to the manner in which party office-bearers were selected. The 1999 constitution subsequently went on record. The Shinde side says the 2018 constitution represented a significant departure from that structure. Its argument is that the later arrangement concentrated substantial authority in the party chief and relied extensively on nominated or appointed office-bearers rather than elected organisational bodies. It has also questioned why its leaders participated in the organisational structure created under the 2018 arrangement and did not object to it at the time. Kaul has further argued that the 2018 constitution relied upon by the Thackeray faction was not registered with the Election Commission, while the 1999 constitution was on the Commission’s record. This has become a significant element of the Shinde faction’s case. The Thackeray faction, meanwhile, has relied on the Supreme Court’s earlier Constitution Bench judgment in the Subhash Desai matter to reinforce the distinction between a political party and its legislature party. The earlier judgment’s discussion about not conflating the political party with its legislature wing arose in the context of questions such as who could appoint the whip. It did not, according to the Shinde side, mean that the Election Commission must ignore legislative strength altogether when determining which faction represents a recognised political party. The Shinde side has also invoked the Sadiq Ali case, arguing that legislative majority remains a relevant consideration in a party-symbol dispute. The case has therefore increasingly begun to look like a legal examination of the Election Commission’s decision-making process. The Thackeray faction has questioned the Commission’s jurisdiction and the basis on which it concluded that there was a party-wide split. Its challenge effectively asks whether the Commission went too far in examining the internal structure of the Shiv Sena. The Shinde faction argues that Article 324 gives the Election Commission broad powers and that, when two groups claim the same recognised party, the Commission has to examine the party constitution, organisational structure and available evidence to identify which group represents the party. The practical difficulty is obvious. The Election Commission cannot ask every Shiv Sena member whom they support. Nor can it conduct a referendum among every booth-level worker. Kaul has therefore defended the organisational-majority approach as a workable method of assessing cadre support through recognised organisational bodies and elected representatives. The Shinde camp has also brought the events after the 2019 Maharashtra Assembly election into the argument. Shiv Sena and BJP fought the election together, but the government subsequently formed under Uddhav Thackeray was with Congress and NCP. According to the Shinde side, that political realignment created discontent among sections of the Shiv Sena organisation and contributed to the eventual split. The Thackeray faction disputes the broader narrative and maintains that the legislative rebellion cannot simply be converted into proof that the political party itself changed hands. It has also challenged the Maharashtra Speaker’s decision not to disqualify MLAs from either faction. The Supreme Court has examined questions about what could follow if that decision were set aside, including whether consequential disqualification could arise under the Tenth Schedule. Party recognition and legislative disqualification arise under different legal frameworks. The Shinde side has argued that earlier cases concerning disqualification cannot simply be transplanted into the Election Commission’s determination under the Symbols Order. The real question is no longer simply who has more MLAs. It is whether those MLAs, the party organisation, the constitution and the cadre can legally be treated as parts of the same answer. (The writer is a political observer. Views personal.)

Reel Power, Real Stakes

Correspondent

Jan 11

3 min read

Vijay’s swansong film has become a proxy war in Tamil Nadu’s fiercely-contested election.

With barley four months before Tamil Nadu goes to the polls, a film has managed to unsettle both the state’s entrenched rulers and the central government in Delhi. Jana Nayagan (“People’s Hero”), the final outing of the superstar-turned-politician Vijay, was meant to be a curtain call to a 30-year film career. It has instead turned into a full-blown constitutional melodrama, replete with a High Court stay, a censor-board rebellion and an extraordinary political pile-on.

The Madras High Court has blocked the film’s release until at least January 21, citing objections from the Central Board of Film Certification (CBFC) that certain scenes could threaten “national security.” For a production that reportedly cost Rs. 500 crore, with theatres booked and Rs. 50 crore in advance collections, the delay is financially ruinous. But the bigger casualty is political. Vijay, who has launched the Tamilaga Vettri Kazhagam (TVK) and declared his intention to become Chief Minister, had planned Jana Nayagan as a cinematic springboard into electoral politics.

In Tamil Nadu, cinema is the most potent political technology ever invented. The Dravidian movement mastered it in the 1950s and 1960s, turning films into ideological pamphlets and movie stars into mass leaders. M.G. Ramachandran and later Jayalalithaa rode celluloid stardom to the chief minister’s chair. Vijay’s gamble is that he can do the same in the age of social media and fragmented loyalties.

Jana Nayagan is explicitly designed for that purpose. The trailer presents Vijay as a crusader for fishermen, women and the poor, railing against corrupt institutions and entrenched elites. One line - “I have no intention of turning back. I am coming” - might as well be a campaign slogan. Songs and dialogues portray him less as a fictional hero than as a leader-in-waiting, a Tamil Nadu version of the anti-corruption crusaders who once electrified north India.

That is precisely why the film has become so sensitive. Its scheduled release clashed with Parasakthi, a film steeped in the iconography of the anti-Hindi agitations of the 1960s, the emotional bedrock of the ruling Dravida Munnetra Kazhagam (DMK). In that ideological turf, the DMK brooks no rivals. Matters were inflamed further by reports that Vijay had bypassed Red Giant Movies, the DMK-linked distribution powerhouse run by the party’s first family, to release Jana Nayagan independently. In Tamil cinema, this is tantamount to a declaration of political war.

After a single judge cleared the film, the CBFC appealed, citing unremoved scenes that allegedly imperil national security. A division bench stayed the release. The optics were combustible. Chief Minister M.K. Stalin accused the BJP-led Union government of turning the censor board into yet another instrument of political intimidation, alongside the CBI and Enforcement Directorate. For once, the DMK found itself defending a rival if only to keep the Centre at bay.

The BJP, for its part, has been scrupulously silent, letting the CBFC do the talking. Congress leaders jumped in to back Vijay, triggering an awkward spat within the INDIA alliance. Some DMK figures accused Delhi of trying to nudge Vijay into the BJP’s National Democratic Alliance. Others saw the Centre using regulatory levers to unsettle regional power bases.

Tamil Nadu is a geopolitical outlier within India. It has resisted Hindi imposition, kept the BJP at bay and cultivated a distinct Dravidian identity. Delhi’s attempts to expand its footprint through culture, cinema or celebrity politicians have largely failed. Vijay’s rise threatens to scramble that equation. Unlike earlier film stars, he is positioning himself not as a DMK offshoot but as an anti-establishment insurgent, attacking both the ruling party in Chennai and the BJP in Delhi.

That makes him uniquely dangerous. For the DMK, he risks peeling away young and first-time voters disillusioned with incumbency. For the BJP, he offers a charismatic alternative to a party that has never cracked Tamil Nadu’s emotional code. For Delhi’s mandarins, a Vijay-led government would be another assertive regional actor complicating Centre–state relations.

Battle for the Bow and Arrow

Reel Power, Real Stakes

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